how the rain on your window
cannot hold, and falls.
Such clarity breaks the heart;
and the dark iron soul of the Earth
calls the tiny drops
as if it were a dragon, and they, angels.
how I ramble, and tell stories,
all of them impossible and absurd.
When the sky clears, the stars will come out;
the street will shine, but we will be melancholy
knowing, as we do, that the shining is the rain
calling to its sisters above,
forever lost, without wings,